


Tomorrow We'll Be Worlds Away

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interpretation of the last few days before the barricades - trying to blend in with canon material - aaand the end..basically just tears, for me whilst writing it and thinking about it anyway. Also my first ever fic so yeah, it's short and there's no sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Time is Near

**Author's Note:**

> 'Ello there lovely people! Basically this is the first fic I have ever written, therefore the first piece of writing (other than a few lousy poems) that I've ever shared with anyone. I'm sorry if the characterization is terrible, I haven't read all of the novel yet, but I get my inspiration from some extracts, the 2012 film (which I've seen seven times so far) and other fics..that's, that's all I hope you like it!

The news of Lemarque's death had arrived, spread, and started a fire within the people of Paris. Students were scattering out of Café Musain as the night was closing in, inspired and filled with a new-born enthusiasm. Grantaire was still sitting at his little round table upstairs while Enjolras gathered his papers and wished good night to the amis who were thumping down the stairs. As Enjolras sprang to follow their path, he heard the loud sound of a chair scraping the floor; Grantaire had suddenly stood up, pushing his chair aside.  
"Enjolras" was all Grantaire could utter. His wine-stained lips were unworthy of this blesséd name, and Grantaire unworthy of the attention of its bearer. Enjolras turned around at once, standing steady yet relaxed with his arms hanging in the air, hands clenched around papers in the excitement of revolution, and a faint smile appearing across his face. He was expecting one last 'vive la République!' or a 'good night, Enjolras', but when he saw Grantaire's distraught expression, his smile disappeared and he knew he had once again expected too much of his incompetent ally. Without blinking, he moved his head to the right to glance behind the man's shoulders, his eyes searching for an army of empty bottles on his table and yearning to identify them as the source of his sorrowful stare. To his surprise, the table only had a single, empty decanter standing on it. Enjolras looked back at the glassy blue eyes.  
"What is it Grantaire?" he asked, concerned, trying not to sound impatient.  
The man opened his mouth to speak, but he could not find the right words and so remained silent. Enjolras looked down and let out a familiar sigh.  
"Look, I don't have the time." there was now an evident impatience in his voice that made Grantaire's stomach ache, stirring up the food he greedily consumed in the hope it would bury his heart, food that Enjolras would only eat to gain energy when he desperately needed it. The clothes on Enjolras seemed looser than usual; he had forgotten to eat again. Grantaire shook his head and smiled in agony, taking a few steps back to place his unsteady hands on the edge of the little empty table behind him. He gripped it as strongly as he could and tried to keep himself from falling over.  
"I know, I know…" He said laughing, as tears suddenly rolled down beside his cheeks as canon balls would on a battlefield. He knew Enjolras despised him. He was of no use, he was incompetent, he was only a drunkard fogging his mind with toxins. At least this is what everyone thought of him. But what did Enjolras believe?

To Enjolras, Grantaire was a rare and strange creature. A wild beast driven by instinct rather than reason, wandering loose and free in the jungle with no home, no welcoming nest to rest his troubled head. He was a bird without chains keeping him down, and yet he was unable to fly. The sky seemed too far away, too empty, too perfect; there were no cracks filled with dark disease, no tumours of red left untreated. The sky and Grantaire were too different. As opposed to letting out his storming rage in thunderous weather, Grantaire let his anger swim and long to drown in numbing seas of wine and absinth. Enjolras did not understand him, but he also never questioned him.

Grantaire's tears went unnoticed by Enjolras, who was slowly starting to turn around murmuring something along the lines of 'get some rest, Grantaire'. The latter pursed his lips in a thin red line to prevent them from trembling, and bit down on his bitter tongue. He could taste his cowardice and bit down harder, involuntarily clenching tighter at the edge of his desk. His vision was clouded by a hot, watery mess that stung his eyes like a thousand daggers forged in the core of the sun. He embraced the pain because that is what he decided he deserved, he accepted it as punishment for his undying desire for a perfect, beautiful deity. A pure and heavenly statue Grantaire’s hands would never be nearly clean enough to touch.

Enjolras felt a heavy weight pressing down on his proud chest, the sudden pressure making his lungs feel too small for the air he sharply breathed in a moment ago.  
“Grantaire, I must go. Please do not drink yourself to death tonight.” His tone was surprisingly gentle. Enjolras’ request flew past Grantaire’s ears like bullets in clear air.


	2. Running Towards Their Downfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning of Lemarque's funeral day, everyone is still alive, I'll try to summarize this chapter better later on when I'm not completely drowned in the pain of this ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I must apologize for my characterization, I should really do more research before writing fics but I just had to let all my emotions out..next chapter coming soon.

It was the day of Lemarque's funeral. The sun stroke through the faded red curtains - neatly hung above Enjolras' window - casting a faint pink shadow on the left side of his sculpted face. His gentle eyes were closed, his lids resting heavily after hours and hours of being forced to stay open. His papers lay in organized piles upon his desk – where he lay his head, tucked between his folded arms - some spread across the floor, some violently scrunched up and abandoned in a dark corner of his room. It was peculiar that the stubborn student was asleep at a time like this, though, it was unusual that he was even sleeping at all. This peaceful moment didn’t last long, as soon there was a storm of abrupt knocks on the door.  
“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac yelled to his friend with a child-like excitement in his voice. “It is time, today’s the day of revolution, we must go!”  
Enjolras snapped his head up from his desk, murmuring something unrecognizable under his breath.  
“Won’t be a moment, Courfeyrac” he answered whilst clearing his throat, trying to sound fresh and awake. He quickly rearranged the sheets of paper he had accidently fallen asleep on and sprung up from his chair, grabbed his red coat and stormed out of his apartment with Courfeyrac by his side. They talked of a new day dawning, the power of the people, and the freedom they will all begin fighting for today.

The sun was barricaded by the silent houses of Paris, yet it still achieved to shine directly at Grantaire when he reached the corner of the street. The sudden light made his eyes fill up with premature tears and he raised his shaking arm in defence, loosening his grip on the neck of the empty green bottle in his hand. He stumbled down the cobbled street, drunk and uncertain of his direction; the only thing strong enough to occupy his mind - which was surrendering to the corrupting power of absinth - was his last memory of his Apollo. His red lips preaching words of his beloved revolution with frightening conviction, his eyes reflecting the orange gleam of burning candles slowly melting on the tables of Café Musain. Every candle burns out eventually, but the flame inside Enjolras never seemed to even flicker.

In the café, whenever Enjolras turned to Grantaire, the drunkard seemed to be caught off guard somehow - his laughter stopped, his head sprang up from behind his bottles. He was awake. Grantaire stared at Enjolras as if he were auditing a play, enticed by Enjolras' actions like those of a brilliant actor's. But Grantaire didn’t listen to his words, his prose, his promises of freedom and victory. He simply watched him. He was filled with too much sorrow to be able to continue listening, and he has heard more than enough over the last couple of weeks; he knew very well what was going on. But knowing was painful...perhaps it was better that Enjolras knew nothing of Grantaire.  
Grantaire’s thoughts of the night before were chased away when he felt a hard pat on his back.  
“Grantaire! I wondered if it was you here awake so early! Or have you not yet slept?” Courfeyrac’s voice was filled with amusement, but he appeared to be out of breath  
“It is not early. It is late; too late.” Grantaire groaned, displeased.  
“Too late to stop drinking…” Enjolras remarked disapprovingly as he calmly caught up with the two amis, throwing a serious glance at Grantaire. The latter immediately looked up at the sound of Enjolras’ voice, only to find him looking at him with a stern expression and dark eyes under knitted eyebrows.  
Grantaire felt a well-known shot of pain in his chest that made him glance down in shame. He tried to hide his hand – which was holding the empty bottle – inside his wrinkled sleeve. He felt himself flush of embarrassment and anger.  
“Is there not a revolution you are needed in?” he mocked, with a false grin on his face. He tried to pick up his pace to escape the two men beside him, but his ability to walk straight was failing him.  
“Look at you, you cannot even walk straight. Go home, Grantaire.” Courfeyrac patted Grantaire on his back again and lead him along the street until they reached his shackled apartment. Enjolras remained silent during the walk, firmly holding a piece of paper in front of him that he was pretending to read. 

When they reached Grantaire’s door, Courfeyrac removed his hand from the man’s shoulder and waved goodbye, saying they would meet at the barricades later on, 'if god is willing'.  
Grantaire slammed the worn out door behind him with an unnaturally strong force. His face looked weary and worryingly ill; beads of sweat covered his forehead and the purple bags under his eyes, where they mixed with freshly fallen tears whilst soaking up the dry. His breaths were short and broken, not keeping up with the rate of his pounding heart; the restless mass of blood was racing a marathon held in a different universe, its unbearable speed exceeding the limit Grantaire's trembling body had allowed.  
He fell down on his unmade bed and curled up into a ball, holding onto his aching stomach, crying out in agony. After an hour of demons crawling inside his skin - feasting on his heart -, Grantaire pushed himself up with an angry grunt, went to his washroom to splash some water on his face, and exited his apartment hurrying in the direction of the wine shop.


	3. Cruel Taste of Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barricades are being built and Enjolras runs up to collect the rifles from Cafe Musain, but Grantaire distracts him (ooooh). Final chapter before the major character death warning comes into picture. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this very late (or early in the morning, as you wish to put it) so I haven't checked it over much yet. Being as descriptive as ever about the smallest character movements, hope it isn't too annoying!

Grantaire sat alone on the first floor of Cafe Musain, with a pile of bottles on his table; some were full, and a worrying number of them were empty. The morning was conquered in glorious silence, not a single soul around to break it. This frightening silence was the reason Grantaire could not fight himself to sleep there and then, even after consuming buckets of red wine in the past twenty hours.  
Out of the blue, he heard a storm of footsteps, shouts, and gunshots. Within minutes the noises were invading the street below and loud crashes were heard; the building of the barricades has begun. 

Enjolras hurried past the people building the barricade, shouting inspirational words in their ears as he did. He swang open the doors of the cafe and - taking two steps at a time - rushed up the stairs to collect the rifles kept there. When he reached the top, his eyes were immediately focused on the dark silhouette of a drunk he knew better than he wished to, laying out on a chair as if it were a bed.  
"What are you doing here?" he snapped as he stepped nearer to the nonchalant figure. He felt a mixture of pity and anger towards Grantaire mess with his joy and excitement of Patria. He stood with his hands digging deep into his hips, lips pursed, waiting for Grantaire to respond. Grantaire gave him a look filled with desperation. That was it; Enjolras turned his heel and walked towards the rifles in the corner.

Grantaire - nearly falling off his chair - reached out to grab Enjolras by the arm, but the man's hurried steps took him so far so fast that the sleeve of his treasured red jacket was the only thing that could be caught in the haste. Enjolras felt a strong pull and spun backwards before he could even register what was happening, the heels of his boots squeaking on the bold hardwood floor.  
Grantaire held onto the fabric with all the strength his wine-soaked mind could supply, and his mouth opened in amusement as he watched Enjolras struggle to win back his balance. Grantaire thought he resembled a tired pup, too sleepy to stay steady on his feet but still aware enough to growl and bark at anyone who disturbed his peace. He smiled sheepishly at the idea, but the image was dissolved when he caught Enjolras' cold stare. Grantaire's expression hardened at the sight of the beloved blue eyes looking at him in such a way, and he felt the liters of red wine in his stomach transform into an ocean of green guilt.  
Enjolras witnessed the sudden change in Grantaire's expression and it filled him with shock and unexpected drowsiness. A rush of realization struck through his bones like a powerful lightning that has been hiding behind a black cloud for centuries. Pain. In that moment, he stopped seeing the Grantaire he had always wished to avoid seeing - the irresponsible drunkard, useless to the bone, the man who believes in nothing - and saw a man he had never dreamt of recognizing in the shameless persona of the man with the dark ruffled hair and drunken red lips.

The two men glared into each others' revealing eyes for a brief second that made them both age a year inside. Grantaire started to lose his grip on the red sleeve as his fingers gave in to the numbness of drink and despair, slowly sliding down the material making his body that was half hanging over his chair fall forwards. Dead drunk.  
A reflex, Enjolras turned his wrist to catch Grantaire's sweaty hand and gripped it with the certainty with which he would so often hold a flag. He used his other hand to quickly catch the falling man's shoulder, and gently pushed him back onto his chair. The gentleness of the soft, marble hands was nothing Grantaire had ever experienced; it was nothing anyone had ever experienced at the hands of Enjolras, at the hands of Apollo.

Enjolras was in the habit of saying 'you are drunk' to the flushed face before him when he was in this condition, but something held him back this time. Instead, he obeyed a sudden urge to kneel on one knee before him - his left leg nudged between Grantaire's thighs - like a brave soul silently preparing to be knighted.  
Grantaire felt the angelic hands through the light fabric of his shirt as one was pressed on each of his hanging shoulders. The touch was all Grantaire would have focused on if he hadn't been just twenty centimeters away from Enjolras' lips, which were parted from surprise and had started to gently tremble; for all the months Grantaire spent observing the heavenly creature's flawless features, he had never seen these lips act this way. The drunken man's numbness was replaced by warmth as ecstacy shot through his body and the desire burning inside him spread from his heart to his lips and arms like a virus. Throwing aside all doubts and thoughts of hopelessness, he lifted his left arm to meet Enjolras' shoulder, and let his fingers clench around his folded collar.

Enjolras had no time to react to the unexpected gesture, as a moment later he was being dragged down by his neck with a force he could not fight. He was now only a few centimeters away from Grantaire's nose. He felt the strong aroma of wine on Grantaire's breath, and felt himself being slowly pulled closer.  
"What are you doing" he mouthed, realising his voice had been silenced due to the lack of oxygen in his lungs. He panicked and greedily breathed in the heated air separating the two men's lips, blinking rapidly as he focused his eyes on Grantaire's blood red pair. Enjolras gave a hundred quick glances from the lips to the glassy eyes, waiting for his opponent to settle this battle of senses.  
Grantaire hastily flung his arms up to level Enjolras' neck and planted his palms on the cold temple of his Apollo. He swam his fingers through two handfuls of golden curls which were softer and more divine than he had ever imagined. He was now completely possessed by the promise of something he had spent lifetimes longing for. Grantaire's tainted lips crashed onto Enjolras' in a striking second of perfection - the opposing lips twitched at the wildly unfamiliar feeling - and embraced them in a ferocious kiss.  
Enjolras felt the ground beneath him fall as his head was taken in the strong hands of Grantaire, nose pressing against his, lips surrendering to the warm tongue that tasted of bittersweet wine. He felt Grantaire's upper body moving restlessly under his hands that were frozen still on the wild beast's shoulders. He had the revolution temporarily swiped from his thoughts; his mind was spinning from pleasure underneath his tightly closed eyelids. He had never felt anything like this before. He slowly brought his hands up to outline Grantaire's jaw with his delicate fingers, digging them into the dark stubble and moving upwards to reach behind his ears.

Grantaire moved into Enjolras' embrace as effortlessly as waves being washed ashore. He kept one hand occupied with twirling the man's exquisite curls between his fingers, and used the other to start tracking the rest of Enjolras' angelic form. He slid his hand down the smooth neck, gently poked at the hollow skin at the bottom, and continued finding his way to a tensed collar bone. He started to swiftly unbotton the unneeded white shirt hiding a divine chest, which was caging a fast-beating heart. He felt Enjolras' hands gripping strands of his hair, painfully, as if to threaten to tear them out of place. Their kiss became more passionate as Enjolras felt Grantaire's touch on his exposed skin, making him grind his hips forwards, pressing his knee into Grantaire's inner thighs. Grantaire was content; his pain was now wearing a colourful mask of pleasure and joy. Grantaire was with his angel at last. Time passed slower in the realms of heaven.

The kiss was abruptly broken when Grantaire slid his hand further down Enjolras' beautifully formed stomach, which made the latter snap out of this alternate universe of freedom and love and pushed him back into cold and cruel reality. Enjolras pulled back his head as far as Grantaire's desperate hand allowed, and opened his blue eyes - which were darker than usual - into a terrified stare; a stare of an innocent child who had just witnessed a black crow feasting on a dead animal for the first time.

Grantaire's bitter tongue was still moving when Enjolras tore his sweet lips away, and his mouth remained open as he felt the dry emptiness appear between his teeth. The teeth that never took the chance to bite down on Enjolras' soft bottom lip, the teeth that did not want to scar this perfect statue, the teeth that would crumble and break against the priceless marble. The frightened look on Enjolras' finely carved face burned the core of Grantaire's mind; the part of his mind where the wine could never truly reach. Grantaire let go of Enjolras and let him spring up and stand on the floor, where he took a small step back. The drunkard looked down with his darkened blue eyes and stared into the vile void of pain and sorrow that returned to him - unwelcome - once again.

Enjolras stood still with only his upper chest moving as he inhaled and exhaled short, quiet breaths. He could not evaluate what had just happened and had no usable ideas of what to do next. He was afraid. He was in shock. He had lost total control and gave every inch of himself to Grantaire, to another man, to a pair of wandering hands and savage lips. The confused man could not bear to look at Grantaire anymore; he turned his heel, hastily picked up the rifles, tucked them under his arm, and fled the cafe without a word. Without looking back.  
"Coward.." Enjolras whispered to himself through his clenched teeth.

Grantaire sat on his pitiful chair, the emptiness of the place pushing down on his chest like water in the lungs of one who is to die drowning in the ocean. He was alone, in his own terrible company. Without Enjolras, his life was meaningless.  
He swallowed an entire bottle of wine within seconds, closed his teary eyes and fell asleep upon the table while the people outside were preparing for war.


	4. Glimpse of a Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My account of that particular scene that..you know..tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry I managed to drag this extremely short fic out over like three months, I know it's not okay. But I hope not many of you were reading it anyway so you weren't disappointed! I love you all and I promise I'm going to write more fics - AT A FASTER PACE - now that I've finished this..I've also started annotating the brick going through it page by page finding amazing stuff so I'm really inspired to do some more e/R fics. Yay! Woo! Get ready for the death scene okay bye.  
> OH, the quote at the end is from 'A Heart Under A Stone' which is currently my favourite few pages of the brick because oh my god Victor Hugo is a genius.

Silence awoke Grantaire from his miserable slumber. He opened his glassy eyes to the sight of blood and wreckage; tables flipped, chairs broken, fallen friends resting still on the faded wooden floor like ragged puppets. Standing up, the drunken man took a few uncertain steps and noticed the swarm of soldiers in front of him. He panicked. He was looking for Enjolras now, and he feared the worst until his eyes narrowed once again at the brightest light source imaginable to man, the sun. Except, it was Apollo himself standing in front of the window, light streaming through onto his athletic figure as he stood like a sublime statue. Grantaire didn’t know whether the red on Apollo's hands were marks of blood, or of the flag he was so desperately holding. He continued stumbling closer to his target with stronger steps. After weeks, months of provoking angry glances from this enigmatic man, now Grantaire wanted Enjolras to look at him the way he did just a few hours ago. He had to get his attention.  
“Long live the Republic!” he exclaimed in a throaty voice cracked by illness and alcohol. “I belong to it!” he added, and to his heart’s greatest joy, Enjolras’ pair of dark blue eyes were now directed at him. 

Enjolras felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Even after hours of battle and hundreds of moments filled with tragedy and death, he was just as fresh and rosy as he was the previous morning. The blood splatters on his cheeks and hands were of the wounds of friends he had loved and dared to lead to a revolution that was nearing its end. None of them survived. But, Grantaire, Grantaire was there. The man who had loved him all along was awake and stepping closer and closer. Did Enjolras love him all along, too? Yes, Enjolras thought. It's interesting how a man of such intellect could not figure out his own feelings until the very end; when it was too late. Or was it? Enjolras sighed with a profound peace in his voice. 

Grantaire finally pushed his way through the soldiers and stood next to Enjolras, trying not to fall.  
"Do you permit it?" he asked, without thinking. He had to ask Enjolras. The previous night when he tried to fight at the barricades, help out, instead of sleeping at his table, Enjolras still treated him as if nothing had happened between them. A kiss did not allow Grantaire permission to do anything. He still had to ask, he still had to beg, he still had to do as his Apollo said. For a moment Grantaire was expecting the man before him to frown and shake his head -  
But Enjolras smiled.

Enjolras smiled like he never had before. Enjolras smiled and with his free hand, reached out to grasp Grantaire's. The inexpressible warmth which spread through both of their bodies was as radiant as the rays of sunlight hitting their backs. Grantaire's smile was a grin, and his eyes were open.  
"FIRE!"  
The word was only heard by the soldiers.  
Eight bullets pierced Enjolras' chest and pinned him straight against the wall. He bowed his head lightly, letting his golden curls fall forward to cover his forehead. The performance was over, and the red curtain drawn.  
Grantaire was almost immune to the pain of the bullets that hit him where it should have hurt, and he didn't let go of the hand he was holding. He felt the rapid pulse on Enjolras' wrist slow a little, then Grantaire's eyes were closed and he fell at his Apollo's feet.

 

"If there did not exist some one who loved, the sun would become extinct."


End file.
